


I’ll Take Manhattan

by ballpoint



Category: 1610 - Fandom, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory and Tony Stark decide to compete for Steve’s affections. The winner gets Steve - and Manhattan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Take Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valtyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valtyr/gifts).



> Written for valtyr due to reasons, but I've only just now got around to posting the bleeding thing.

**Sighted: The Stark brothers at Giovanni's. By our calculations, it is the first time they've been in the same room _simultaneously_ in over ten years. The movers and shakers on this part of Manhattan are all _agog_. Will the brothers two be ending their silent war - the fallout that had Gregory Stark departing to the other side of the globe? Or suing for peace since the elder Stark maintains his brother stole valuable tech from his company, which caused him to leave New York to start afresh, if you believe the rumours. **

**Since Gregory Stark lit on the scene, he's rocked the city with a twin arsenal of wealth and charm.**

**He single handedly pledged to fund the Met ballet to the tune of multi millions for the next five years. The Editrix of _Vogue_ has taken him to her heart -and to the shows at the front row at NYFW. She actually smiles when he's around, amazing! According to other sources, Tony Stark isn't too bothered about his brother prowling around Manhattan, and has offered _groves_ of olive trees for peace.**

**For those in the know, Gregory Stark hasn't been shy with his intentions to stay in New York; and he's been scouting for digs of a more permanent nature. Vulture grows _giddy_ with delight at the prospect of the brothers Stark with their combined powers of money and charm joined in the quest to take Manhattan. **

**We can only say with breathless, joyous abandon: yes, _please_. **

Ever since Dr Gregory Stark came back from his antipodean sojourn, he held court at _Giovanni's_ every Tuesday afternoon. It was one of _those_ places; only known to a select few; its culinary treasures zealously guarded. Nary a mention in foodie columns, or even a smudge on the consciousness of those hip, well regarded web sites. It didn't help that the building was small, nondescript on the outside, with faded painted letters across its doors and a car park the size of a postage stamp. 

Inside, within its walls, it held a small part of Italy, with air sweetened by basil and lemon. White tablecloths smoothed across, and fell into gentle folds from the edges of perfect circles. On their surfaces, baskets with bright scarlet checked clothes wrapped around freshly baked bread. The wait staff drifted as silent as ghosts, leaving the twin wonders of olive oil and balsamic vinegar in their wake, precious liquids encased in cut glass, served on a plinth of sterling silver. 

The meal presented with flair; a click of the heels, a murmur, a smile, a nod. A glass of sparkling water with a twist of lemon. The meal, an _anatra arrosto_ ; crispy duck, the skin seared with flame and served with honey, roasted apples complete with accompanying balsamic vinegar sauce. Dr Gregory Stark sipped at his beverage, before spearing the soft flesh of duck with the tines of his fork, fragrant steam streaming into the air before it disappeared.

"No background music, no other diners at the same time you're dining. Honestly, Greg, wouldn't it be cheaper to just have the chef on retainer?" Tony splashed balsamic vinegar over his _spinaci_ \- a cluster of chestnut mushrooms, vine tomatoes and chunks of avocado. With the flecks of balsamic, the meal looked like a swirl of green and red in the middle of a pale oval shaped canvas. 

Gregory said nothing, only the scrape of cutlery against crockery answered Tony's question. Not that Tony minded, helping himself to a mouthful of salad; the creaminess of the avocado softening the bright flavour of tomato and the tang of vinegar, helped along with the delicate taste of mushroom. Of course, the food was exquisite - the Starks expected nothing less- but the wine, well, that was a revelation. 

"Hmm, the flavours of tobacco and cherries. Light, fruity, exquisite," Tony hummed with delight as he slipped from his glass, before holding it up to the light. Tony's eyes narrowed in concentration, like a lapidary peering at a precious stone though his loupe, as he watched the legs of the wine as they made their way along the inner edges of the glass. 

"Reading _Sommelier for Dummies_ again, Tony? But then, with you, you've always been so easily... _impressed_."

"Ah, Greg, every time you speak, my affection for you lessens by _degrees_. I must say," Tony cast his eye around their surroundings. He and Gregory were the only bodies here, apart from the wait staff, and the cooks in the kitchen. "This place is a jewel. The fare is simple, but well made. The cellar small, but perfectly chosen. I'd have never envisioned this place being in Tribeca."

"Hmmm. That's the advantage of coming home after some time away. You tend to see things with a fresher eye."

"I'm not normally a jealous man, but this place is _fantastic_. Well played. I'm sorry that it will be the first and last time I'll ever eat here, alas. You've never been one to share."

"Indeed. Is the fare to your liking?"

"Bliss." Tony agreed. His eyes didn't flutter shut at the creamy mouthful, each bite a singular experience as the first- but it was a near thing. 

For the next while, the only noises in the air apart from the distant clang of pots, and the sizzle of something solid hitting hot oil, were the scrape of cutlery on their plates. 

If it hadn't been for their humble surroundings, they might have been at the Stark summer home in the Hamptons. Gregory had taken to wearing white in his sixteenth year, to Tony's fourteenth. The preppiness and bulk of cricket sweaters soon gave way to the fine, light materials of Gregory's suits. His aversion to drink came much, much later. Gregory's eating habits hadn't changed, however. Fork in left hand, knife in right, food cut in neat pieces before eating. His moves studied, delicate and purposeful- for even in this - Gregory demanded ceremony. 

"Is there a reason you invited me here, Greg?" 

Tony sipped at his wine. Ordinarily, he'd have preferred something with a bit more _kick_ , but the wine was sweet, with a lovely buzz which blunted the edges of all things. It even made Gregory's attitude somewhat bearable. 

"I've asked you not to call me Greg. Not everyone longs to have a name wreathed with the false intimacy of a weather girl, or the smarm of a talk show host."

At Gregory's comment, Tony smiled. "Before you grew up and lost your sense of humour, you answered to Greg."

"Just because you choose not to take yourself seriously, Tony, it doesn't mean that I should follow suit."

"Of course. As it is, as much as I appreciate a good meal chased with lashings of Giovanni's finest at high afternoon, we're not the sort of family to just-" at this, he raised his eyebrows, "meet up."

After taking a long, leisurely sip from his glass of sparkling water, Gregory leaned back in his chair, and looked across the table. "I'm not going back to Melbourne."

"Oh? I did hear about you moving to Singapore. A good choice, what with the Japanese economy now suffering from _deflation_ the third year in a row. South Korea isn't your scene, the climate doesn't agree with you. What about Hong Kong? Your Mandarin and Cantonese have always been good."

"You misunderstand me," Gregory steepled his fingers, resting his pointer fingers just at the point of his chin. "I'm done with my antipodean jaunts, it's time for me to come back home. To New York."

"Home," Tony said, feeling his insides warm. Not that he and Gregory had been close during the past ten years, but still, it was good to have family. "I can't see why not. Gregory that's-" he was going to say _fantastic_ but Tony cut himself off. He belatedly remembered who he was speaking to. "What _are_ you up to, old man?"

"New York isn't big enough for the both of us," Gregory's voice now smooth and soft as kid leather. "I've come back home, little brother. You can vacate in your own time."

Before a deal, or a threat, two things happened to Tony Stark, no matter how inebriated he became (and this included that boozy weekend in Monaco with a pair of princesses and their grooms when he got wind of his first hostile takeover). 

First thing, his senses sharpened, to the point of being attuned to each nuance of phrasing, aware of the shifting of various attitudes by the myriads of viewpoints of stakeholders. The second thing, and most painful - is that he came close to being terribly, dreadfully, regrettably sober. Considering this wine had the comforting buzz of a good woman; all delightful tastes and that soft veil of comfort against _everything_ , this was most unfortunate indeed. 

"Greg." 

Tony waved away the waiter drifting in their direction, and at Tony’s gesture, he turned on his heel and legged it towards the kitchen. Tony could not _possibly_ have a drink, not right now. At this moment, it wouldn't do for Greg to have the upper hand, and with a mental gird of his loins, Tony switched to sipping from his goblet of water instead. 

"Are you... asking me to leave New York?"

"No, not asking," Gregory raised his eyebrows, a mirror image of Tony, except that he was all gilt and rose to Tony's dark hair and golden colouring. "I'm making a very strong suggestion, in saying that Melbourne would be lovely this time of year. You _do_ have some interests on that side of the pond, despite our agreement of that part of the world being mine."

"We aren't the Regents of Spain and Portugal divvying the New World under the aegis of the Pope, Greg, although you may think you’ve been invested with that sort of power. I'm surprised you haven't used the divine _We_ by now. Besides, you’ve had Stark-tel housed in that quaint part of The Meatpacking district for the past decade. I could have rousted it out, but did not."

If Gregory had any shame about being caught, he didn't say so, only sipped from his glass, his Adam's apple a smooth bob as he swallowed.

"It's been ten years, Tony, I'm home, you need to go. The fact that Nick Fury's decided to deal with me instead of you-"

"Shows that even bright men can do things that are infuriatingly silly at turns." Tony shrugged his shoulders, his hands spread into a gesture that spoke of futility. "What can one do? As much as I now suffer from Fury’s lack of largesse, I won't starve. Nor will I leave NYC. Besides everything - the lights, the amusements, my business- it's my home. _Our_ home."

"What we've got here, is a failure to communicate," Gregory said, the words crisp and sharp on his tongue, where it should have been pauses and a drawl. Tony knew he shouldn't have, but Greg's comment caused him to soften, and smile. What Tony wanted to do was quote the rest of the dialogue, but instead, he ploughed on. 

"Slick move, Greg."

"Sentiment was always your blind side, Tony. You can't fault me for trying, can you?"

"I'd be disappointed if you hadn't."

"Tony," Gregory smiled, eyes entirely too shrewd. "You're disappointed that I have."

"Point," - Tony could give him that- "but we have tarried long enough."

"Time keeping was never your strong suit."

"Ah, see? You're back and already a good influence. Not that I don't like a good gossip, but I think we've gotten all caught up, haven't you?"

"Brass tacks then," Gregory agreed, as he scraped the remains of his meal to one side of the plate, placing his knife and fork together in the twelve o'clock position. 

"Agreed."

"I suggest we play a game, the winner takes it all."

"Are you all right, Greg? You've caught the most distressing habit of speaking in cliché."

"Alas, but you respond so readily, it's truly the only way to engage you, I'm afraid. Lazy minds, and all that."

"All fun and no play-" Tony said, heartened as Greg laughed, the first _real_ laugh that Tony had heard since Gregory arrived from Australia. 

"Quite," Gregory said, his features sliding back to their faintly scornful mask of business. It's a pity that Greg did sneering so well- Tony wondered if their mother had been right- with Gregory’s sneer now that way as default. "I propose a game. Steve Rogers."

Well, that was a surprise, to hear Steve's name tripping off Gregory's tongue. Tony didn't clench his fists or grit his teeth, although, it had been a near thing. 

"Steve Rogers as sport? That's a new one on me, Greg. Do tell."

"Imbecile." 

Tony wondered if he'd heard a faint note of fondness underneath all that mockery, and told himself not to be ridiculous, because Greg had squashed all hope of brotherly reconciliation before he departed to Australia, with his right hand woman in tow. 

"Apologies, brother, I'm dull when I'm sober, and it's getting to be a near thing."

Tony found himself on the receiving end of his brother's blank stare. "Each of us should  
approach Steve Rogers, court his favour, make him an offer. The person whom he sides with can stay, the other one will go." 

Tony laughed, amusement flooding his blood, as welcome and intoxicating as liquor. "Steve Rogers. _Court_ ? He's ... he's a basic man, Greg. Thinks _Costa Diva_ is foreign beer. Short of wanting to stage one's own _Pygmalion_ , I don't think-"

"My game, my terms."

"We're not children anymore, Greg," Tony said softly. "I didn't ask you to leave New York, you're my _brother_ , why don't we -?"

"It's better this way. It costs money to launch takeovers, to undercut and subterfuge. As much as it pains you to accept, if we don't do this, I will launch a takeover. I _will_ undercut, and scheme and bring you down. This way is more...expedient, with Steve having the wants, the needs, the projections of this country's hoi polli. He's perfect, what he represents. What he _is_."

"It figures," Tony said after he scanned his brother's features and found nothing, not an iota of self doubt there. "The last war- _our_ last war -would be genetic."

**Chapter 2**

"Alex, you are-" a dramatic pause. "Not the father." 

Steve curled his bicep with the twenty pound weight, his eyes on the TV in front of him, catching some breakfast viewing going through his paces in the gym. It wasn't the easy luxury of the Stark mansion, but after Fury's grand falling out with Tony, well, this would do. Even then, there were worse places to be stationed instead of the Triskelion, Steve knew. At least, he was home, with Lady Liberty just outside his window, with book and torch in hand, back when she welcomed his ancestors from distant shores. 

"After six times, you think she'd know," he muttered to no one in particular, shaking his head. He didn't want to start thinking about how people did things back in his day again, because that only made his head hurt. 

"Hey, Ste- I cannot believe you're watching this," Steve turned towards the direction of the voice, acknowledged his entry with a nod. 

" Sam," he greeted through a grimace, because the tenth rep of twenty in a row _now_ started to tax his muscles, Sam’s casual salute - a finger briefly touching his forehead, then the air- showed that he understood the spirit of the greeting. They had gone beyond the civil grunts, their exchanges a lot warmer between themselves since their last mission together. 

"It's the quickest way to get into the culture, and I have fifty years of catching up to do." That was Steve's excuse and he was sticking to it. Never mind that he made a game of betting against who was or wasn't the father. He bet against the look in the talk show host's eyes, the way how the fingers shifted on the paper before he read the edict. 

"God help us all." Sam dropped onto a nearby weights bench beside Steve. Their gym state of the art, this section dedicated to weights and various resistance machines, with HD TV having the pride of place higher up on the wall, with nothing but bullet proof glass to the far right of the room.  
"Yeah," Steve could understand the sentiment, but he shifted his mind to the present moment - and Sam. "What brings you back, Sam? I thought you'd be in the Amazon."

"I've been cleared to go to Indonesia, just waiting for the last of the injections to kick in." Sam patted his upper arm, Steve made out the edge of the gauze just under Sam's short sleeved shirt, a white square against skin the colour of rich siena. "Why are you still here? After our run in with those Vampire zombies - I thought you'd have put in in for a little R and R. You are allowed."

"Yeah." Steve kept his gaze on the TV, as a commercial showed a baby bouncing up and down on a sheet came on the screen, with the fabric softener brand superimposed on the image. "What the hell were those yahoos thinking? Trying to use the genes of Vlad the impaler and -"

"It's the power of gene manipulation," Sam shrugged. "Discovery. Some things go right, and some go wrong. On one hand, Frankenstein's Monster, on the other - a cure for cancer. To be fair to them, the initial tests seemed promising, I can understand why they'd have pushed it. Their fail safes were wanting, but they weren't stupid for wanting to try."

"Of course, side with your kind."

"Who helped your kind with Gah Lak Tus, don't forget." Sam's cheeks dimpled with brief and real amusement, before they smoothed out again. "But we’d go round and round with that argument Rogers, and still stay on the side we started from. So, let’s come back to you still being here, watching shows about paternity suits - this is _not_ being the best is about. C’mon, get outta here."

"And go where?" Steve rolled his shoulders, as he felt Sam sigh. Never mind that they'd pretty much just became friends only recently, their argument felt almost familiar; it didn't have the tensions and defensiveness around it like he and Jan did, but then, there wasn't an ex husband to deal with, or the sticky matters of sex complicating friendly interest. 

"Anywhere, man. Road trip, or a knitting camp in San Jacinto, if that's your scene, but you can't just be hanging around all the time, watching _Maury_."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam answered easily, not bothered by Steve’s tone. "You're a good soldier, but you have to remember what you're fighting for, because in this line of work, it can all get... abstract after a while, you know?"

"Why did you leave the armed forces, Sam?" Steve asked, and wasn't surprised at Sam shifting into flint and distance, like the first time they met. 

"I loved science too much to stay," Sam said, his answer a tad too sharp, the words, too well used. Then, as quickly as his dark mood struck, it shifted into something sunnier. "Anyway, an assignment for you, should you decide to accept it."

"An assignment?"

"You're wired to be a good soldier. To act on orders, so I'm giving you some. Four weeks from now, I'll be back, and you're gonna take me to a new place you've discovered, and buy me dinner."

Steve thought about it. Frowned for a minute, and decided to accept Sam's dare, because buying dinner for and sharing dinner with a friend was no hardship. Still, only a chump went down without a fight. "I'm failing to see how this benefits me, Sam."

"You'll see," Sam leaned forward and punched Steve lightly on his shoulder. 

"Like 'wax on, wax off'?"

It took a second, then Sam laughed, his eyes lit with amusement. "Yeah, like that. _Just_ like that. With a meal for me at the end of the day. Just so you know? I'm a Thai food man myself."

**Chapter Three**

"Mr Stark?" 

Tony didn't even look in the direction of the voice, just waved for his butler to come in. Jarvis - although not his _original_ British Jarvis. This one wasn't so fun, albeit foul- that was something -although not long enough in his employ for Tony to get used to the change. This Jarvis, the all American ex-footballer type- more of a bruiser than a gentleman's gentleman, but Tony dropped the pretense of being a gentleman a long time ago. 

"Jarvis," Tony said, lounging on the sofa clad in his robe, his feet crossed at their ankles on the squishy ottoman, his body held up by the cushy support of his sofa. The TV broadcasting skirmishes from the other side of the world, Tony gave it a critical eye and came to the following conclusion; not Ultimates business... not as yet, anyway.

"Ms Potts sent over some personal mail," Jarvis strolled in, envelopes spread on the dainty silver tray gripped in the beefy fist of his hand. "Quite a few invites, she says, and expects you to say yes to some of them."

"Darling Pepper thinks she's my keeper... she may have a point." 

Indifferent to Pepper's methods by now, Tony didn't even bestir himself to grumble. Besides, he had other things on his mind, like his brother's dare. Tony lifted a letter and its accompanying letter opener as Jarvis stood to attention. It was ridiculous to decide on where he'd be living for the next ten years, to put all of this on one person to woo Steve onside and - oh. 

"A contract." Tony sighed, as he unfolded the letter, seeing the other Stark's logo to the top right hand side, the rules of the contract drawn up, all in the equivocal, covering all bases legal speak, the first one being that neither brother was to let Steve know anything about their bet. 

_Just between us_ the message implied, hinting at an intimacy that only siblings could have, but Tony and Gregory hadn't been siblings for a long time.

oOo

"We can't let them win! I refuse!"

Greg viciously swiped a lock of his hair away from his face as he glared at Tony. They were younger then, still in the school uniform of Hawthorne Academy. Black blazer with the school crest, white shirt, striped gold and maroon tie with khaki trousers. Even way back then, Greg tended to be buttoned down, with black shoes done to a mirror shine, his clothing pressed and not a stitch out of place, despite his agitation. 

They were in one of the reading rooms; the dimensions awesome to even Tony, accustomed to wealth and immodesty from birth. A huge, cavern of a room, with maps of various continents lined along the walls, the older models of computers lined along its sides. Underfoot, the map of the milky way carved into the marble underfoot, with the universe drawn from the concept of some long ago astronomer that Tony long forgot the name of. 

"Greg, the Tinkers have the best boat this side of the world. They've been unbeaten in regattas for _generations_. Besides, you know what they're like. Assholes, the pair of them; a matched set, you said."

"They see us as some jumped up noveau riche," Greg spat, his face flushed red from outrage, making Tony aware, not for the first time, that Greg might have lived up to the nickname the Tinkers called him. "They refuse to take us seriously, although we've done just as well as them, even better."

“Well,” Tony drawled, trying to keep things light. “We _do_ holiday in the Hamptons.”

At Gregory’s glower, he tracked back, tried for the conciliatory note. 

"It doesn't matter, truly. We won't be here next year, remember? They may have early acceptance to Harvard, but they still have to wait until they are _eighteen_. We just have to finish the semester, and that's down to Dad being Dad, not us."

"It matters," Greg gritted out the words, the anger making his body taut, his voice cold. "We're going to beat them at their own game."

"The regatta?" Tony half gulped, wishing that he had water to hand, or even some of his dad's scotch. "Greg, are you _crazy_?"

"No, we're entering the summer race. I've put our names forward."

"The Northeastern seaboard regatta?" Tony turned on Greg, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Again, are you crazy?"

"Imbecile," Greg smiled at Tony, his tone fond. "You shouldn't repeat yourself, what are you, a parrot?"

"If that's what you are, then what am I?"

"Besides, " Greg ignored Tony's bait, his voice brighter now. "It's a duo for sailing. Tony, I can't do this without you, I can't trust anyone else but you. Everyone here - they'd need a flashlight and a map just to find their asses in the dark. Just between us, remember?"

That's what made Tony say yes, because at the end of it all, it was only them, the brothers Stark. 

No one else understood Greg's genius, and no one made Tony laugh as Greg did.

"Okay, we'll beat the Tinkers at their own game, _then_ can we go to Europe? The _pater familias_ refuses to let me go alone."

"Perhaps," Greg drawled, careful in not making promises even then, his eyes far away as he thought about _possibilities_ , Tony knew. "Let's win this, and then we'll talk."

oOo

"Mr Stark?"

Jarvis' voice pulled him out of his reverie. Tony shook his head, wishing he could drink away the memories, knowing that there wouldn't be enough alcohol in the world for that to happen - God knows, he'd tried. "Do you have a pen? Why am I not surprised that it's a bic?" Tony sighed as he uncapped the cap from the cheap plastic tube of a pen, scrawled his signature just under Gregory's and placed it on the tray.

"Can you make sure that this is sent to my brother's address, please. See that it gets there _today_."

"Yes sir, Mister Stark."

He just couldn't look at the other correspondence at this moment, although he knew what the envelopes held. Invitations to functions at the Met. Carnegie Hall. MoMA. The premiere of a new and exciting play on Broadway, a provocative ballet that needed a patron. Tonight, there would be parties that he could crash; due to the strength of his name, he'd still be welcomed, his company desired. Or he might run into Gregory, and he wasn't up for seeing him right now.

Tony whipped out his phone out of the pocket of his robe, and half scrolled, until he rested on Steve's name. He firmed his lips, and put the phone down instead, wondering why he allowed Gregory to get under his skin so.

**Chapter Four**

**Sighted: A certain Stark and a certain Super soldier at the opening of the new season of the Met last Tuesday. Gregory Stark was the special guest for _Il Barbiere Di Siviglia_ , and Steve Rogers his plus one. Rumour has it that Gillian Howes (yes, that Gillian, head of New York Transport ) has had her eye on Gregory Stark for some time, and is said to be gutted at being overlooked. Helloooo there, soldier! So, do you think Steve Rogers knows his _Il Barbiere_ from his _bacon bits_? We do have a soft spot for men who like a bit of culture. What say you?**

oOo

"What's your deal, Gregory?"

"Fury." 

Gregory lifted his glass in a half salute, as Fury strolled into his office. If it weren't for the fact that Fury brought him back from the other side of the world, laden with trillions in military contracts to boot, Gregory wouldn't have had anything to do with him at all, because Nick Fury was vexingly , ingratiatingly _familiar_. 

"Dr Stark, to you." he said, not bothering to offer a seat or any refreshments, or any sort of formal civility, because Fury - as he pleased, just strolled around Gregory, dropped into his office chair, and with a neat move, placed his feet at the corner of Gregory's desk, and linked his fingers across his stomach. 

"Okay, let's play your game, Greg. Or I will once you make the rules clear to me. What is going on between the Messers Stark ?"

"My brother wouldn't say?"

"When it comes to you," Nick raised an eyebrow, his one eye giving Gregory the steady glare. "Tony tends not to say anything at all. For a long time the world thought he was an only child, and you coming back seems have given the gossips of New York a _flutter_ , if the column inches are anything to go by."

"I thought favourable publicity was always a part of the plan?"

Fury laughed, a low rumble, but Gregory wasn't fooled. It wasn't filled with mirth, exactly, although Fury was a wily enough bastard for people to think so. 

"Favourable, yes. But _Gossip Girl_ style? No. Listen, I don't know what's up with you and Tony, and I don't necessarily want to know, either, but there'll be no bloodshed on my watch."

"What's it to you?" Gregory sipped at his tonic water. "You've always said that Tony was a weak sister, that he didn't have the balls to do what I do."

"This is true," Fury turned his palms up, as he acknowledged Gregory's comment. "But Tony still has his uses, and I'll thank you not to try and rock the foundations of what we have going here."

"Or what?" Gregory glanced at Fury from under lowered lashes. "Is this a threat?"

"Oh no, we don't threaten," Fury's voice was all soft, a mellow baritone, and Gregory didn't trust him one whit. "It's a free country. I don't really care if you and Stark play marbles in goddamned traffic, but I'll expect you to make the cars _swerve_ around you both, are we clear?"

"Crystal." Gregory lifted his stare to Fury's, and held his place as Fury got up, and strolled towards the door, his hands in his pockets. As he made to pass Gregory, he stopped, and said, "I'm so so _glad_ that we've had this little exchange of ideas, _Dr. Stark_."

"And Rogers?" 

At Fury's raised eyebrow, Gregory explained frostily, "Steve Rogers, I'm _surprised_ that you haven't come to read me the riot act on Steve Rogers as well."

"You aren't a stupid man, Gregory. Steve Rogers is the future of wars, after all. I wouldn't expect you to try and destroy our only living prototype. Not even you could pay for good publicity even if you did that, with all your billions."

Gregory's pointed silence was an eloquent enough _fuck you_ in itself.

Nick Fury laughed as if he caught the heat of Gregory's thought, and drew the door closed behind him with a soft click.

Steve wondered if he were susceptible to suggestion. 

It was the only reason why he'd say yes to Gregory Stark, considering that when it came to the Stark brothers, he dismissed them as crazy and people to be held at arm's length. Gregory more than Tony, mind, but the point still stood. What prevented him from dismissing them out straight out was Sam. He’d be back in four weeks, wanting to be entertained when he landed, in a place that Steve didn't know, and with that in mind, well, saying yes to Gregory was easy, because if anyone in the world would know where anything new was, it would be either Stark or well, Stark. 

He'd never been to the Met before, or an opera, and up to this moment in time, thought box seats had something to do with public transport - and now he was doing all three. 

This must be the idea of the ‘bucket list’ they talked about, where you ticked off things to do before you died, the thought floated at the edge of Steve’s mind, only to be chased away by the charming patter of _largo al factotum_ , as the singer bounded onto the stage, pulling something like a wagon behind him, the notes tripping off his tongue. 

Gregory sat a ways from him, his suit a soft glow in the dim light, and Steve looked out and beyond at the people seated below him and not for the first time wondered what in the heck he was doing here.

 _Get outta here_ , Sam’s comment kept him rooted to his seat, and Steve told himself that he was going to tough it out- and the second he got back home - Italian was next on the list. 

After the Met, they ate at one of those members’ only places with quiet music, tasty finger food, and attractive women serving them drinks. Steve narrowed his eyes at the glow of light roving over the expanse of flesh, but he had to admit - grudgingly- that this was a classy joint. The ladies were skimpily dressed, but it didn't seem tawdry at all. 

"I assume that the entertainment was to your taste, Captain Rogers?"

"Yeah," Steve rubbed the nape of his neck, again wondering what the hell he was doing here. "Thanks for the invite, when you said that you were going to show me the best NYC had to offer, I wasn't thinking about Lincoln Center."

"Quite."

“So that’s where that music came from. I remember it from the old _Looney Toons_ cartoons.”

“Indeed,” Gregory smiled, more out of habit than actual warmth, and not for the first time, Steve wondered why he got the invite. Not that he’d ask, Steve thought as he took a sip of his beer - something stronger and foreign - _triple filtered_ Gregory pointed out in those snooty tones of his. But yeah, not that he was one to press Gregory Stark, who seemed like a man who never had the misfortune of being rushed; who liked to find his way around things, just like Tony did. 

“Not that I’m one for cartoons,” Gregory said, as he sipped at something fruity and colourful from a highball glass. “But if one has to drip art to the masses, there are worse ways, I suppose. That and something called _Sesame Street_.”

“Dr Stark,” Steve made sure to address Gregory by his honorific, although he couldn’t hide his amusement and disbelief. “I can’t believe you’ve never watched _Sesame Street_.”

“Have you?” Gregory asked, and then smiled, which made his eyes a bit warmer - although being that odd sort of cold blue, they only thawed slightly. “Of course you would. Nick Fury divulged that you watched daytime TV back when we were in pursuit of...” _You_ , Gregory was going to say, back when Steve was running away from the Ultimates, running towards the truth of the Red Skull - and God helped anyone who stood in his way 

“TV is the quickest way to access culture,” Steve dipped his potato wedge in the honey mustard sauce. “When you’re a man out of time like I’ve been, you need to get caught up, real quick. I’ve gone from _Looney Tunes_ , hit _The Civil Rights Movement_ and Women’s Lib. Now I’m at _Dude, Where’s My Car?_ ”

“A cultural nadir if there ever was one.”

“I don’t know what to say to that, “ Steve admitted between bites. 

“Come now, you’ve never been shy, my good Captain,” Gregory rested his elbow on the table, braced his weight on it, so that he leaned across the table, his body into Steve’s space. “Have you ever thought of the reasons why you’re here? Why you woke up - to your country needing you, perhaps, to turn from its wrongs to its rights, rather like a Joseph Conrad novel?”

“No,” Steve admitted, as he dropped his gaze to his glass, watching the bubbles floating lazily to the surface, where they burst into pinpricks of froth and fizz. “I’ve never thought about it. I just... woke up.”

“Well,” Gregory said, leaning back into the plush curves of the wicker chair, his expression thoughtful, yet shuttered. “You probably should.”

**Chapter Four**

**Heard: According to sources in the Triskelion (these are rock solid sources, if we said who, we’d have to kill _you_ \- all of 1.4 million subscribers), Carol Danvers and Tony Stark - who might have or might not have had a thing, but they’ve strenuously denied this thing- have now broken up. Not that they were together in the first place, see? But they are broken up now, for good. Completely. **

**In completely unrelated news (totally unrelated, we _promise_ ) Carol Danvers has resigned from the top cop job of Triskelion. Who now replaces her in this house of revolving doors? Nick Fury, of course. Not that we mind the _swagger_ of the man in black prowling around NYC and keeping us safe, but we mourn the fact that he won’t rock the bomber jacket and boots with the same elán that Ms Danvers did. **

**So, this begs the question - who’s Tony Stark going to have a ‘maybe they will, maybe they won’t’ thing at the Triskelion now?**

**What say you, readers? Comment below.**

 

No matter how many relationships - both fleeting and anchored- Tony found himself in, he had never been immune to a break up. Oh, there were ways to make it less painful, to extricate himself from the situation much more smoothly. Jewellery helped, in most cases, especially if it matched the former paramour’s eyes. For the more reluctant ones, a trip to the Maldives - or any exotic and warm place would do in a pinch, for them to come to terms with The End of It All, and a consolation tan. For the up and coming starlet, a teary farewell lunch at Nobu, or a shopping trip in Paris, with a tip off to the paparazzi - because Tony always tried to end things on a good note. 

There would be no way to end this particular situation on a good note. 

Carol picked her way through his apartment, stuffing the odd knick knack of hers into the gaping maw of her canvas SHIELD bag. Her kindle, the _September_ issue of _Vogue_ which lay half open on the coffee table for weeks, now thrown in. Pencil case, mobile phone, hair brush.

Her hair tied back into a ponytail, exposing the gash of her forehead held by sutures, suggesting that the wound was still healing, she still tender. However, her stride was bold enough, her steps quick. The ease she moved suggested no lingering effects of that monumental cock up with Spider man, and the Punisher . Her career now in ruins, sure, but she still had her health - the comment was there on the tip of his tongue - ever so tempting, but he held back, letting the moment pass, leaning against the door frame, as Carol brushed by him, moving into the bedroom they shared for a few brief … _interesting_ months.

“If you wish, “ Tony began, “I could put in a good word for you with Fury or Gregory.”

Carol did not pause, as she scooped the bits from the dresser into her bag. The little bits of magic that made her _her_ : nail polish the colour of putty, a vial of perfume in the midnight blue star shaped bottle that she allowed him to buy for her, after prolonged and imaginative wooing, which might have involved strategic pulse points and a whole lot of tongue. 

That had been a good night.

“No,” she bit out, viciously swiping bottles of lotions and potions into her bag - a worrying shatter and tinkle of glass against heavier glass - the bloom of gardenia and bergamot sharpened the air between them.

“I don’t need you to speak to Fury or your brother about my abilities, Stark-” and right-o, they were back to surnames now. It was as if they were back in Chicago and on the hunt for Steve after he went rogue and all the attendant madness then. 

“There’s no shame in taking help offered, Carol.”

“That’s not help, Stark, it’s a hand out.” 

“You showed that you’re capable -”

“Of creating a clusterfuck of epic proportions.” A wry smile at this, before Carol rolled her eyes, before sitting at the edge of the bed. “I don’t know how it happened, I-” she stared at the drawn blinds. The rest of the room still lit, with the specially designed Stark-lite brands, to stimulate real light, in order to offset SAD- and because they always kept the blinds drawn during their assignations. 

“I’ve never looked outside your window,” Carol, pressed the flat of her palm against her face. “According to _Architectural Digest_ the view is fantastic.”

“It’s not too late.”

Carol raised her gaze to his, and Tony knew the answer before before she even said the words. 

“It is.”

**Chapter 5**

Normally, after Steve went through a debriefing, he had a routine. He would go home, work the DVR, and catch up on the TV shows he missed whilst he was away on missions. If still restless, he'd wander the streets, allowing the noise to wash over him, to - well, it sounded better when the psychologist on _Anderson Cooper_ said it- _find one's centre_. No matter how bunkum it sounded, it worked, and it was a ritual he looked forward to. 

Away from the halls of the Triskelion, thirty three floors down, through security checkouts and he’d be there, going towards the heart of the city. He’d stop on a street corner, have a hotdog. He’d breathe, and he’d find his centre. 

Or, that is what Steve would have done if Tony hadn't stumbled into his path, spilling scotch over his uniform. 

"Really, Tony?" 

"An accident," Tony tittered, flicking his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it over to Steve. "Let me make it up to you over a meal."

"I don't think you and I share the same definition of 'a meal'," Steve pointed at the glass in Tony’s hand, only to raise an eyebrow when Tony raised his hand to block Steve's path. 

"Not liquid. Don’t be beastly, say yes.”

 _Not hungry_ \- the words sprang to Steve's lips, before Sam's words came back to him - and the dare. Of course Tony would know the places to go for food, especially the foreign cuisine that Sam tended to favour so much. No hardship, not for Sam. It didn’t hurt being seated opposite Tony, who offered in that way he did, as easy as he pleased, and he wouldn't be offended at Steve’s answer either way. 

This, Steve told himself, was for Sam, and only Sam, and so he said, "Okay."

oOo

"The food suits, I gather? As in, are we singing from the same hymn sheet?"

Steve could only nod, as he sipped at his miso. A strange, salty-savoury taste - not too spicy, but enough of a presence on his tongue to enjoy. The restaurant at first struck him as strange. Thrown in dim lighting, wooden panels with statues carved in high relief. Instead of chandeliers overhead, blasting light into their surroundings, their surroundings drawn a little closer, a bit more moodier, but nice, Steve eventually decided. This was nice. Women flitted from table to table, clad in jewelled coloured kimonos, depositing meals at their tables. It figured, Steve thought, that Tony spoke fluent Japanese, but was still _Tony_. The easy smiles, the prolonged (unnecessary) flirting with their hostess- before he ordered for both of them. 

"It's good," Steve agreed. "I've never- "

"Yes, you never caught up with Pearl Harbour, did you?"

"Or Vietnam."

"Nor the rest of our skirmishes abroad." 

"If that's the setup for a Rip Van Winkle joke, let me save you the punchl-"

"At ease, O Captain, my Captain," Tony waved off the objection, before he too, sipped at his beverage. "Enjoy. Not unless you're one to dwell on such things after passing, are you?"

"You mean 'history'?"

"History stretches from yesteryear to yesterday. The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."

"But everything we do today throws the groundwork down for tomorrow."

"You're thinking again. It's a dangerous habit, albeit attractive."

"It's hard to forget," Steve placed the ceramic cup on the surface of the sturdy wooden table with a soft 'clunk', as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the surface of the table. Bad manners, but the aegis of Tony's money made such accusations feeble. "The things that we do, and we do them because- because."

Tony's mouth twisted, his features disquieted before they smoothed out again. 

"Because," Steve continued, "in the moment that we take them on, we believe we're right, that it has to be right, or else, why do it?"

"Laying plans for the future, one supposes. Coming back to your point. Fury would point out that's the purpose of a superpower."

"Screw Fury."

"Alas," Tony grinned wolfishly. "He isn't my type. Sam on the other hand... The military bearing, the righteous glower, all that ... _tech_ -"

"Hah," Steve shook his head, half frustrated. "You don't get it, at all."

Tony opened his mouth to say something, but their dinner arrived in sleek dishes, wreathed in fragrant steam and gentle urgings by their hostess to eat.

o0o

"Captain Rogers isn't a stupid man," Gregory said unnecessarily.

Tony only glanced at his glass, murmured thanks when the servant refilled it. They were at Gregory's condo, and from the vantage point, with its three hundred and sixty degree views as well as floor to ceiling glass, it seemed more of an eyrie than a place of residence. Gregory prowled across the mirror tiles, with his glass blue eyes fixed on the horizon. With his shock of hair ruffled, he seemed more predatory than the coldly elegant figure he cut around town. 

"No, he isn't."

"He's being wooed and coaxed by the pair of us, yet seems inclined to neither."

"Did you have to shut down Ellis island for him, though?" Tony tittered. "For shame, Gregory. How vulgar."

"He wanted to know where his ancestors came from."

"I'm surprised that you haven't bought his ancestral hamlet, down to the brook running through it."

"I-" Gregory breathed out through flared nostrils, no apologies in his manner. "Might have thought about that."

Tony had to smile at that, half sad at the warmth that bloomed in his chest, because that part of Gregory hadn't changed. 

"I'm glad you didn't. Since we agreed to limit places of interest within Manhattan."

"I am well aware."

"It's not too late to call this off."

"It's a wonder why you wear any colour other than yellow. Those tones suit you so well," Gregory purred. Tony shut his eyes at the age old accusation, feeling the warmth towards his brother fading away. He pushed himself out of the chair, and responded in a similar tone: "Oh, Gregory, I was about to say the same for you- and white." 

At this, an irritated flush slapped across Gregory's cheeks, the only outward show of emotion, and Tony forced himself to swallow the resentment, as bitter as bile. "I'll see myself out, Greg," he waved his glass of liquor around, more for show at this point, since Gregory was the only person who was easier to take on whilst sober. "I'll send the glass back when I'm done."

 

**Chapter Six**

Steve Rogers first thought when he opened his eyes that morning, ran along the lines of, _I may be slow, but I’m not stupid_. 

True, a few things slipped past him, but not this. 

For the past three weeks, he had been squired around various parts in Manhattan - from the tour of Ellis island to the tony halls of The Met. If not by Gregory, then by Tony Stark. The Starks working together in tandem? To what end? 

Putting his theory to the test, he ran a hypothetical situation by Ms Chang, who dismissed it with a curled lip and a glint in her eye. 

“You’re thinking about asking them to host the Triskelion Yule Celebration,” - they didn’t call them Christmas parties any more, a fact Steve accepted- “ _together_?”

“I know it’s a bit early, and their schedules might not match up,” Steve continued, feeling his cheeks colouring with embarrassment. Look at him, making small talk about parties, instead of coming straight out and asking Monica Chang, but if watching daytime TV taught him something, it was small talk. Keep the conversation casual and moving briskly. Obliqueness had its merits, and getting Monica to open up without hesitation was one. 

“Gregory and Tony Stark _hate_ each other,” she said in between sips at her coffee cup. The LED screens flickered behind them, information shared with blinking lights, rotating models of cities and machines. There was no trouble brewing right now - well none that needed The Ultimates anyway, and Monica Chang wasn’t in her Black Widow get up, just the standard black and purple form fitting SHIELD operative gear. “They’ve always done. That’s one of the reasons why Greg decamped to Australia for the while.”

“But they are back together, in New York.”

“For now,” Monica rolled her shoulders, and shook her head. “Damn Nick to hell and back for Gregory Stark. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“Who? Dr Stark?”

“No. Nick.” Monica gave a smile then, gallows humour to the bone. “But if you want Stark squared to organise the Yule deal, don’t be disappointed if they decide to pass.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Well, Steve frowned. That was that theory slightly shot singed, but he also had another one to test.

oOo

It wasn't enough to have money to qualify for the Northeastern Seaboard Regatta, _lineage_ counted as well. Those with wealth sprouting from the first shoots of Dutch and German roots of this land, as well as those who could trace their ancestry from _The Mayflower_. Traditions old enough to resist hacking, because all the members’ names were copied down by hand into a handsome leather bound book - as old as the club itself.

The insult of being unable to join- to best the Tinkers at their game rankled for days - until Gregory made it so. 

"How?" Tony questioned, as he ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief, tugging at his school tie. "How did you do that?"

Gregory smiled then, an affair of all teeth and the light in his eye that hinted at - Tony didn't know what it hinted at.

"Does it matter?" Gregory challenged, bold as the sun that washed their study room with its bright light. "It shouldn't. It won't, soon enough." 

"And Dad?"

"Dad's _only_ third generation wealth, and of no use to us. We're doing this on our own."

“-Stark. Hey, are you there?”

Tony batted Steve’s hand away, feeling the warmth of skin against his fingers, despite the chill of the morning, and the slap of breeze on the water. From their vantage on the water, they could see the island of Manhattan. The arrogant sweep of the Triskelion building, adorned in lights, fully recovered from its past onslaughts. The silhouette of Manhattan’s skyline against the dusk of the sky, of blue streaked in with the dawn. 

“Wherever would I be?” 

“I don’t know, but I need you here.” 

“For someone who’s only just learned the difference between port and starboard, you’re doing fine.” 

Steve only moved his shoulders as answer , keeping his eye on the wind indicators, him moving around the boat doing everything - trimming the sails, tacking at angles for the sails to take the wind, letting it go. Steve was everywhere, cheeks rosy from the wind, his shirt plastered against his body with breeze and sea spray, the veins of his muscles corded in high relief from exertion, and his face already ruddy from the sea spray and wind. Chased with the joy of having your body do what you wanted it to do in the _instant_ you wanted it to. From lame duck, as detailed by his files to - the best he could be, or something. 

A memory flitted in that marred this one; sea spray, sun bright hair, and eyes that were green, not blue. Not the broad shoulders of Steve, but the slighter build of a younger boy, and Tony rubbed his eyes once, and twice. Pressed his fingers against his eyes, and unable to hold on, he staggered on top the cabin of the boat, held on to the life line, closing his eyes against the waves lapping against the hull of his boat _Of all the time not to have a drink to hand, old boy_

The sea spray, the unceasing movement of the waves, the lurid pictures of Brett Trinker in his vision. His body not responding, and he so sluggis-

 _The wind came up, so soon. The Tinkers’ sail snapping free from the rigging, and he could only watch..._. 

“Tony, watch out!”

The last thing he saw was the horizontal line of the boom as it swung towards him. 

**Chapter Seven**

“Drink up.” 

“What is this?”

“Not liquor, if that’s the question. Now, drink.”

Tony eyed Steve’s outstretched hand, the tumbler at the tips of his fingers; drink fizzling from the magic of alka seltzer. They were in his apartment, in his bedroom. The blinds were thrown open, boasting the view of Manhattan that Carol never got to see. 

“What happened out there?”

“You tell me.” 

“I was so _dazzled_ by your prowess, I got driven to distraction, and almost committed a veritable faux pas -death by misadventure.”

At Steve’s level look, Tony sighed. “My tumour-” and it was sort of true because Tony did have one. Monitored to be no more than benign by nanotech medicine and medication, but still-- a tumour had to be good for something right? “I haven’t been on such a spirited sail for a while, and my balance isn’t what it used to be.” Tony then raised his hand to his face, feeling the gauze patch on his forehead. “I’m pleasantly surprised,” he touched the bridge of his nose, “I still have my nose?”

“You went down before the boom totally swung around. I ducked, but uh...”

“No matter,” Tony waved off the concern. “I still have my nose, all is well.”

Steve nodded, accepting this. “Okay. Ms Storm has asked me to stay awhile, just so you’re okay.”

“Knowing Sue Storm, that was an order.” At the tinge of colour to Steve’s cheeks, Tony knew that he wasn’t far from wrong. 

“Yeah,” Steve made to get up, “I’ll be in the living room, because. You know. Well.”

Tony knew, but he reached over and tapped his night table, only for the wall opposite his bed to rotate, with a screen the size of a small barn appearing in an instant. For a brief moment, he debated at how unfair Greg might find this; Steve in his room, succumbing to the weakness of daytime TV. _All's fair in war and... war_ Tony thought, turning towards Steve. Smile set to a dizzying wattage, Tony tapped the space beside him. “Might as well come on in, these sheets are a _treat_.”

Steve tumbled in, right beside him, smelling of clean clothing and spearmint toothpaste. “If I’m disturbing you in anyway, kick me out.”

If he-? With a face and body like that, probably not. Tony had to admit to himself, before tearing away to face the television. Steve would have to upend an entire crate of crackers before being forcibly ushered from the comfort of Tony’s bed, truth be told. Of all the bets in the world for Gregory to offer, why this one? Another bone to pick with Gregory, when they next met.

oOo

“I must say, Anthony,” Gregory threw a manilla folder in the direction of Tony’s desk, the pictures scattering from their confines fanning across the desk as if on cue. “Sailing? Captain Rogers in bed with you due to a perceived illness? I hardly think you’re playing fair.”

“My tumour isn’t a ‘perceived illness’, Gregory.”

“Apologies, I forget how sensitive you can be.”

 _And I forgot was a tool you can be_ , Tony thought, but two could play at that game. 

“Inside voice, if you’d be so kind. People might get the wrong idea.” Tony turned around from the view outside his window, his eyes tracking the pictures across his desk. “Besides,” Tony idly buffed his fingers against the lapel of his jacket. “It’s not as if Steve’s made a choice as yet. He didn’t turn down the movie festival at Tribeca, or courtside seats to the Knicks game with you.” 

If Tony felt a twinge of _anything_ at the pictures online with Steve and Gregory seated side by side, he decided not to entertain it. Not even with the provocative caption- **Dr Gregory Stark (his people have asked us to honour his title) and Captain Rogers watching the New York Knicks play the LA Lakers. Witnesses noted how close the men were, as they clapped and joked with each other at various moments. Ooh, is this a brewing bromance?**

“So far, no inkling,” Gregory slipped his hands into his pockets. “He has yet to choose either of us, so I propose-”

“That we forfeit?” Tony volunteered. “A capital idea, since the island is big enough for the both of us.”

“No. God, how you’ve managed to manage Stark enterprises with such a _school boy_ mentality is beyond me.”

 _If what are you, then who am I?_ sprang on the tip of Tony’s tongue, but he gritted his teeth, forced that school boy taunt back. It was unfair how with a few metaphorical swipes, Gregory made Tony feel raw and exposed. 

“It’s not enough for you, is it?” Tony’s voice didn’t shake with the shock and anger, but it was a near thing. “You really are serious about this.”

“I never implied otherwise. We up the stakes. Still staying in Manhattan of course, still no mind control or altering substances as agreed. But enough of the wooing, we’re crossing over into the charm offensive.”

“You will be putting yourself at a disadvantage, Gregory.”

Gregory only chuckled as he turned on his heel and departed with a parting shot. “When it comes to you, Tony? Never.”

**Part 2**

If he were Peter Parker, Steve supposed, and corrected himself (according to the files, the new Spider man was now a _younger_ boy called Miles Morales). Still, that was besides the point. If he were Spider man, his spider senses - his entire body hyper alert and responding to danger - would be blaring in Dolby surround sound right now.

On the face of it, Steve would be hard pressed to say why. The settling before him, simple and - more than nice, he'd say- _elegant_ might have been the word. The table cloth dazzling like a snow bank in the full blast of sunlight. Silverware, so hard and shiny against the tablecloth it seemed _platinum_. Glassware spotless to the point of the ruby colour of wine seemingly suspended in mid air. Steve gently poked at the steak with the tines of his fork, sliced at it with his knife. Medium rare, as he liked it, served with crisp curls of salad, as colourful as the clutch of flowers that rested in the middle of the table. 

Their surroundings only echoed the table setting. Clean lines, the ambient light the perfect framework for the view of Manhattan at night, better than anything he ever saw on screen, and Steve shifted in his seat. For something to do, he cut at his meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed. Mmm, the meal was top notch. The steak seasoned to perfection - allowing the texture and taste of meat to come through, but the layers of spices enhanced the flavour at the same time. 

"Is the meal to your taste?" 

Steve could only nod, with his mouth full. 

"Organic," Gregory said. "I demand it. It's the best way to go, you get the best from only using the best. Do you think the parsley with the Chipotle suits? The idea was to go for _perfume_ as well as taste. The dill would have been too strong," Gregory continued, the personification of the man about town in his white button down, and smoke grey slacks, legs crossed at the ankles. He held a glass in his hand, the bowl of it touched with light fingertips, the stem peeking through his middle and ring finger. 

"Wait, you cook?"

"Yes," Gregory affirmed with a nod. "I must admit, I don't do it enough." A world weary sigh finished this comment, and Gregory looked away from Steve for a brief second, his stare seemingly wandering around his apartment. Steve had to admit, his eyes tended to be drawn to the odd things in Gregory's home as well. Apart from the view- _well, Sam, that's worth fighting for, the view_ \- other little things teased the eye. That mural which seemed to _be_ the entire wall; a tree with curving branches, and circles hanging off them like tinsel coloured stylised fruit. The background in thick, undulating relief, as if someone swirled soft gold on its surface with a palette knife.

"When I think about cooking, it's simple, like boiled franks with a bun."

"With your body?" Gregory raised an eyebrow, features all warm with interest and amusement, and didn't he look a lot like Tony? And that comparison wouldn't have been welcomed with either of them at all, Steve knew. It would have gone down like suckling pig at a Seder. 

Steve shrugged. "Cooking was never my strong suit. There was The Depression, then army rations, and now this."

"I learned to cook at _Le Cordon Bleu_. A couple of short courses, mind. I thought- when I first left New York- well." Gregory twisted his lips and for a flicker of a moment, his stare sharpened, and suddenly, Steve didn't think he was looking at that painting on the wall any more. 

"Well?"

"Paris was a thought, in terms of living there. The language, the people. The spectacle of the _Nuit Blanche_ , but it wasn't far enough. Have you ever been to Paris, Captain Rogers?"

"I've been to France."

"Ah, yes. Well. I guarantee it's changed since your last visit. But in terms of learning to cook, there's no need to go to Paris. Why, Antoine Jacques Bernard would be happy to come in when you have a free moment-"

"Antoine Jacques Bernard?"

"From _le boeuf_ , lowercase letters and all. His restaurant was awarded a Michelin Rising Star award last year. Such a dynamic chef, he is _magic_."

"It's hard getting a free moment, when you're constantly waiting for the shoe to drop." Steve said by way of apology, and declining the offer. "Considering."

"Yes, you were wrapping up that business in Vitsyebsk," Gregory leaned forward, absently reaching for a carrot stick that wasn't shaped like a stick, but more like a carved flower of paradise. 

"Yeah, we were."

"And how did you find working with Black Widow and War Machine? I'm thinking of upgrading his armour to more offensive weaponry. What improvements would you suggest?" Gregory's hand slipped into his breast pocket, and out came a pen, and quick as a wink, jottings on the napkin. "I'm also thinking, are you averse to improvements on your bike-?"

Spider sense fading, as _this_ , the language of tasks and baldly defined objectives Steve understood, and the conversation started to flow. The tingle of something still there, but not so intense. 

**Chapter Nine**

“Here’s the tale of how Rome came to be. Romulus and Remus, when they came of age, decided to build a city as worthy of the gods from which they were descended. As siblings are wont to do, they quarrelled, and come to blows. Remus falls, forgotten. It’s Romulus who lays the groundwork for Rome, and bequeaths the city his name. _Rome_ \- the benchmark of Western Civilisation, only second to Ancient Greece for influence with regards to how we think and govern ourselves. A legacy that starts with one and echoes through the ages, the seat of which people still seek pilgrimage. To touch history, and feel it warmed under fingertips, to _be_. All this because of one man’s will was stronger than the other when it counted. At the end of it, no Stark wants to be Remus.”

“Your tales of conquest are strange, Tony.” 

“Says the guy who has Loki for a brother.” Tony replied as he reached for his beer. Gluten free and triple filtered, which made it absolutely smooth going down. “How’s that going for you?”

Thor only shook his head and smiled, good humour still intact. “You and your brother - instead of striving for the attainable, you go for the immeasurable.”

“Again, from the god who drank so deep and long from the horn of Utgardaloki, he created tides.” Tony lifted his beer bottle as salute. At Thor’s look of touched delight, Tony confessed; “I read some Norse mythology as a schoolboy, especially your adventures with the giants. I passed on the whole ‘lifting up cats’ thing, but to drink so much to the point of affecting the earth’s seas? Inspired.”

“You Starks have so much,” Thor shook his head, a mountain of a man standing on the balcony of Tony’s penthouse, his hair snarled and pulled from its queue by the wind. At least Thor stood on the balcony, and not floating in the air or somesuch. The last thing Tony needed was complaints from the neighbours. “I do find it hard to believe that New York City isn’t big enough for both of you.”

“According to Greg, no.”

“And you’re going along with this scheme because-” 

“There’s no sin in winning, and I aim to do that handily. I will win, and as for Gregory...” _I want him to stay_

Tony didn’t say the last phrase aloud, but he was sure that Thor must have heard it, because of the warmth of his stare, and the bemused shake of his head. “I will never understand the land of men, but assuming these things come to pass, what about Steven?”

“What about Steven?” Tony repeated, his tones tinged with suspicion. 

“He’s already a man who’s shaken by the loss a lot of things, Tony. Faith, love and and perhaps a belief in country, don’t let him be unsure about the bonds of friendship too.”

 

**Chapter 10**

"This is ridiculous. What are we doing here?" 

"You said something, dear chap?"

"Not to you," Gregory drawled, absently brushed off invisible dust from his sleeve. "I got an invite to be here."

"Same. This is such a gorgeous place, isn't it? I haven't been to The Cloisters in so long," Tony walked around, palms facing up as if he expected to feel raindrops on his fingertips. He admired the proud, old world beauty of this place. Fountains in the distance, cobblestones underfoot. The topiary poked at his memories, and got snatches of himself and Gregory running helter skelter between them, trying to hide from each other. But being very quiet, lest their nanny scolded them for being naughty. The bushes were at his waist now, imagine that. He remembered when they seemed like the Amazon to him, the foliage giving enough cover for him to sit and hide, waiting for Gregory to walk past and for him to jump out, screaming, “Tag, you’re it.”

"Remember we came here that time with our governess? You said if I dived to the bottom of the fountain-"

"You'd grow gills if you stayed underwater for long enough. Darwin's Theory and all that."

"Yes, and I passed out, if I remember correctly..."

"And I had to rescue you, before Madame Thierry came upon us. You were gullible, even then."

Tony opened his mouth to say something cutting, but a question popped out instead, the longing for an answer almost palpable. "What happened to us?"

"You mean, apart from twiddling our thumbs and waiting for our esteemed guest to show? Nothing at all."

Tony reached over to touch Gregory's shoulder, only for him to turn away, and Tony aborted the motion, and ran his fingers through his hair instead. Tony told himself to let it go that it was just Gregory's way. That- and he let out a windy sigh, and decided, just like that, he wouldn't. 

"You moved to the other side of the world, because of me. Because of something I said or did, and everyone thought it being over business. The narrative has become accepted, quoted far and wide. We both know that’s not true. I want to know why, Gregory. What did I do to chase you away?"

Gregory turned in mid step, his hands in his suit pockets, his features remote. "We were never the same, Tony. You never had the ambition I had, nor the gumption."

"I got my doctorate earlier than you did, did eighteen hour workdays, and amassed my wealth independently of-"

"Enough." Gregory waved his hand in dismissal, the platinum links of his watch catching the sunlight. "When you had a chance to prove yourself, you were found wanting."

With that sentence, Tony's stomach clenched, and he stared at his brother, slack jawed. He suspected, but didn’t - it couldn’t be because of- please, not that. "Am I to understand that all this... exercise in you shunning me, goes back to that time? Because I didn't leave Brett Tinker to die?"

"Because we didn't _win_. Due to your forfeit."

"I saved a fellow schoolmate from drowning, because his boat was in distress. When you challenged them to a race, no one said anything about sabotage."

"I didn't do that," Gregory spat. "The Tinkers have always been careless."

"Not with their boats." Tony shook his head, knowing this fact was undeniable. "Their cars, their friends, their girlfriends- but never their boats."

"I didn't. I’ll cop to blackmailing Principal Schroeder. We needed to get onto that blasted regatta," Gregory slipped his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels, a lazy hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Principal Schroeder needed to keep his yen for his AP students undercover. But it doesn't matter, because you thought I did, so did everyone else. I wouldn't have stopped, and I only did because you threatened to smash us into their starboard if we didn’t give aid."

“I asked you, if you’d sabotaged the Tinker’s boat,” Tony raised a hand in objection. “You said- you said yes.”

“The fact that you asked Tony, was betrayal enough.”

"Greg-"

"No," Gregory shook his head. "You made your choice all those years ago. Just the first of many. You never had any sort of follow through, and the only time you actually did, she wanted to kill you."

Tony couldn't speak, while feeling himself being flayed open with every sentence. All this time, he'd thought-

"You made me believe you did it. You never said anything to the contrary."

"Don't you understand _anything_? I never gave a flying fuck about the flipping boat, the fact is, we didn't _win_. When it came down to loyalty, you didn't stand with me."

"I'm sorry Greg, but I couldn't," Tony shook his head, holding his clasped fingers to his lips as if in prayer. "That was bigger than a stupid boat race."

"Well, then. It just means that you're stupid. Nothing to be done for that."

Like that, and they could have been in the study room at Hawthorne Academy again, Gregory’s arms folded across his chest and all knowing, Tony waving his hands and dancing around trying to get his brother’s attention. He was fourteen, and his voice kept squeaking and changing, and he was dancing. A gadfly to his brother’s ass. 

The sound of feet striking against the steps saved Tony from responding. Tony turned his head, not surprised to see Steve at the top of the steps, standing by an arch. Out of uniform, thank heavens, his brows beetled into a frown. 

"Captain Rogers," Gregory greeted, and his tones were so solicitous and _warm_ , such a total three sixty to the chill tones he’d just endured, Tony did a double take at his brother. 

"Just the -"

"Can it, Dr Stark," Steve said, surveying the scene. The Stark brothers alike in everything but temperament and choice of suits. Gregory aloof and cold, clad in a suit the colour of an ice floe. White with tints of pale blue at his cuffs and his shirt. Tony, his eyes glassy, his jaw clenched from holding everything back. His hands in the pockets of his suit trousers, as he looked in Steve's direction and smiled. If one didn't know Tony as well as Steve thought he did, you wouldn't pick up on his distress so easily. 

Steve had come to the Cloisters early, waited in the shadows of the arches, heard when Dr Stark and Tony appeared. Both of them tall, elegant men, staying to the paved areas, walking beside each other but not together. Steve had wanted to find out everything, expected a laugh at his expense, some sort of tension - but not this. Not a family event that caused so much hurt, to the point of it crippling Tony, making him unsure. Tony, when on form, his manner as constant as the North Star- dazzling, cocksure and _easy_. 

"Right," Gregory pursed his lips momentarily, dropping all pretence of warmth. "I see where this is going," he smiled- more like baring teeth before a kill- but a show of teeth nevertheless. "Congratulations, Tony."

"Greg-"

"No, no," Gregory raised his hands, palms to shoulder height, as he walked backwards, for a few seconds. "I think we're done here. Thank you."

With a half jog, Gregory exited the courtyard, his footsteps an echo. Steve followed Greg, watched him as he half jogged to his car, his driver holding the door open. The tint of the windows made it impossible to to see the expression on his face as the car pulled away. 

Then, only then, did he make a U turn, retracing his steps, quickening them when he approached the courtyard. He descended the shallow stairs, and crossed the courtyard stopping right in front of Tony. 

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine. It's only family," Tony raised his eyes to Steve's then, glassy with unshed tears. "The last of mine just... upped and drove away in a limited edition Bentley, that's all."

"Dr Stark- Gregory- he shouldn't talk to you that way."

"I know." Tony shook his head. "But he's my brother, at the end of the day. I look at him and see my history. The scar by his eyebrow? That was him narrowly missing the foil when we were fencing - sans protective gear. That boat race we were yelling about? I still have that boat- _Starkers_." At Steve's baffled look, Tony shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I get that.” 

“Quite. We’ll get over it, and be brothers again. That’s all. We-” Tony raised his hands, the gesture helpless and sad. 

“Tony-”

“It’s nothing-” Tony’s voice thickened, he bit his lips and looked away. “It’s _nothing_.”

"I know it's tempting for all your hopes to be put on someone- and when reality doesn't bear it out it's so hard. It's-" Steve scrambled for words, anything to get Tony on an even keel again. He didn't have to smile, but he didn't have to look so _broken_ either. Steve raised his hand, rested it on Tony's shoulder and briefly squeezed. "For me, it's Gail, and -" at this he let out a breath. "And the Red Skull--and resenting Bucky for all the time he had with Gail. But at the end of the day, they aren't my family - not in the way I've gone to bed dreaming and wishing that they could be."

Tony made his hand into a loose fist and placed it against his mouth. His breathing was choppy, and harsh. 

"Where's the Cosmic Cube when you need it, eh?"

"Tony, families aren't the ones you're born into, but made."

"No Cosmic Cube then, right." Tony swallowed, finally looked in Steve’s direction, his lower lip trembling. "Not to be rude but I will need you to leave, I-"

"No."

Tony stopped in mid babble then, and with great effort, Steve saw, he pulled himself together, and tried to be 'Tony' again. Before Tony had a chance to moult into Teflon charm and dazzle Steve jumped in. Mostly on instinct, he drew Tony against him, into a fierce half hug. "Just let it go," he murmured into Tony's ear. "It's okay, I've got you, it's okay."

A shudder, and Steve absorbed the half punch Tony struck against his chest. 

Tony tried again to push away, to draw himself together, but he couldn’t. Touches, especially when they were warm and affectionate, always undid him. This was even more potent, because it was unexpected. Steve holding him firmly, and saying the right bits of nonsense, _I've got you, it's okay. Ssssh, it's okay_ his lips brushing against his cheek and ear. Tony’s emotions fizzed inside him, and expanded, butting against his composure, and he couldn’t hold it back, not this time. 

“I don’t know how your jacket might hold up against tears and snot, Steve.”

“If it falls apart, you can buy me a new one, right?”

Tony laughed, a wild, edged with tears, composure shattering thing. He laughed until tears started rolling down his cheeks, and the laughs became sobs. For the first time in forever, Tony’s composure splintered. The moment too dark for jokes, too close to poke fun at. A heavy, shuddering disappointment fisted around his heart, and _shattered_ it. Too far gone to care, Tony’s emotions carried him on, his body shaking with his sobs. His legs gave out from under him, and he would have fallen if Steve hadn’t held him up. 

They stayed, there, two figures clinging to each other in the courtyard, under the darkening skies. 

 

**Chapter Eleven**

**Heard: Gregory Stark, after spending less than a year in our fair city, is looking to uproot and relocate somewhere else just as _fab_ , natch. Ms Wintour and the rest of the fashion world are loath to see him go, but gratified that he’s still standing by his pledge of millions to Good Causes. Dr Gregory Stark just did a shoot with _Harper’s Bazaar_ , informing the glitterati _en masse_ of his decision at his spread in The Hamptons. In happier news however, it seems that the temporary stop in New York has made him somewhat friendlier. He allows the interviewer to address him as ‘Gregory’. Oh, Gregory Caspar Stark, we will miss you so! Will he say goodbye to Tony, at least?**

A week later, and Tony found himself at _Giovanni’s_ , enjoying the same vintage he’d done over eight weeks ago. Still a Tuesday, with the waiters serving spinach gnocchi and sun blushed vegetables wreathed in a vinaigrette dressing, accompanied with chunks of bread served with a pat of butter. Simple fare, but still the food of the gods. 

“You won, fair and square,” Gregory pushed the contract towards Tony’s end of the table. “Copies have been sent to your lawyers, this is just- a formality.”

Tony read through the contract, and pursed his lips. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I-” Gregory shook his head. “I can’t stay. Whenever I’m around you, Tony, I’m twelve, or sixteen. I’m back at Hawthorne, instead of being here in the moment. I mean,” at this Gregory broke off and laughed, but more filled with self derision than amusement. “I challenged you to a duel over Steve Rogers for crying out loud. I risked contracts, social standing and Fury’s wrath, for what?”

“I will miss you when you’re gone.”

“You won’t. You’ll miss the contracts. I’m still hanging on to those.” 

Tony pushed his food around on his plate with his fork. “I have enough to be going on with, never fear. Will you be going back to Australia, then?”

“Paris, for a while,” Gregory admitted. “I miss the language. I- “ he stopped, took a breath and tried again, as he looked right at Tony. “If you’re ever in that part of the world, stop by, and we’ll do Europe as promised all that time ago.”

“I’ve been to Europe before. Many times.”

“Not the places that I’d have taken you to.” Gregory sipped from his water glass. “Let me try and make it up to you, Tony.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Trying?”

“To make amends, yes. That’s why I’m leaving New York. I’ll be back- when the time’s right, and it isn’t, not now. _Giovanni’s_ is yours. That’s the deed there,” he nodded in the direction of the envelope. “Tuesdays at Giovanni’s, it’s a sampler day to make sure that the food is up to standard, so for the rest of the week- everyone else enjoys.”

For the second time in the space of five minutes, Tony found himself stumped for words. Gregory had never been a fan of the grand gesture. He didn’t share, didn’t yield, even when playing nice. Again, Gregory forced Tony to be honest . 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Goodbye for now’ will be appropriate,” Gregory said with pursed lips. “I don’t think you’ll want to keep Captain Rogers waiting.”

At Tony’s raised eyebrows, Gregory shook his head. “It’s none of my business.”

“We’re friends.” Tony supplied. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Gregory.”

Gregory smiled then, the kind that gave him laugh lines, and made him seem warmer and younger. “Likewise. For the first time in forever, I’m at peace with that.”

“Well, enjoy Paris.”

“Always. If you’ll excuse me, my plane leaves at six.” Gregory pushed his chair from the table, stood, adjusted the hem of his suit jacket, and made to go. Tony watched his brother leave, as he smoothly traversed around the chairs and tables. When he reached the door, Tony called to him. 

“Greg.” 

Gregory turned around, and raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Have a good flight.”

“Thank you.”

Tony sat there at the table, sipping at his wine, and for the second time in two weeks, he watched the sun set. On the second glass of wine, he took out his phone, slid the screen to unlock it, and sent the text, _Have one on me_. 

**Chapter Twelve**

“Okay, so this might not be Thai,” Sam wagged a finger in Steve’s direction, his chopsticks in the other hand. “But this is _even better_. This _Yankiniku_ is - the best I’ve had outside of Japan.” Sam’s gestures were animated, that’s how good the food was. “What have you been up to since I’ve been away?”

“The usual,” Steve answered, deftly using his chopsticks to scoop food into his mouth. 

“And you learnt to use chopsticks. I’m impressed.”

“What did you do in Indonesia anyway?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Let’s just leave it at ‘making science’. It’s good to see you, Steve. You look... settled, even happy. Stick with it, it’s a good look on you.”

Steve couldn’t help it, he smiled. “I’m going to try.”

“And we’ll come back here again the next time I’m in NYC? Say yes.”

“The next- wait a minute. You’re off again?”

“Dr Storm’s invited me to be a part of an expedition to the Mariana Trench. It’s not my speciality, but it’s the _Mariana Trench_.”

“If you find anything weird- leave it there, Sam.”

“Will do.” Sam gave a thumbs up. “So, you’re not going to tell me who or what’s made you so settled, then?”

“Good food, good company. Another round of beers while we’re here?”

“Heck, yeah.”

o0o

Sunday evening, and Tony schlepped around in slacks and a comfortable pullover, enjoying the view of Central Park from his condo. Jarvis let Steve in, without subjecting him to the salacious once over, unlike his predecessor.

“Sam enjoyed his meal, then?”

“Yes, he did, even though it seemed to be more refueling than an actual meal. He’s on his way to the Mariana Trench.”

“If he stumbles across anything untoward-” Tony began. 

“I’ve told him to leave it there.”

“Will there be anything else, Mr Stark?”

“No, thank you.” This Jarvis was an improvement over the other in in that once he showed Steve to the sitting room, he just disappeared until needed. Good help could still be found these days. Amazing. 

“Your new butler is different.” 

“Oh right, first time meeting him? He’ll do.” Tony strolled towards the window, and Steve slipped into step with him, only for Tony to stop, and lean against the wall, and watch Steve’s face bathed in the light of the setting sun. “What can I do for you, Steve?”

“I just wanted to check to see if you were okay.”

 _There’s this thing, called a text_ , Tony found himself thinking, but stopped. Once you got snot all over a guy’s jacket, there’s no way you could smartass your way out of that one. “I’m fantastic, in so much as I can be. I got a postcard from Paris written by Greg’s secretary-” at Steve’s frown, Tony shook his head, feeling lighter than he had in ages. 

“Little steps, little steps. I don’t know if I’ll respond, but the ball is in my court; it hasn’t been like that for a while.”

“I’m glad,” Steve dipped his head, and lifted it again, his eyes on Tony’s, and with his eyes on him, the space became smaller, much more intimate, his hand on Tony’s arm. “I was worried about you back there.”

“I’m as right as Spain,” and Tony didn’t know what he was saying. _Right as Spain_? 

It didn’t matter, what with Steve’s mouth on his, his fingers tangled in Steve’s jacket, hair. And yeah, a snatch of thought across Tony’s mind, as Steve’s teeth scraped along his lower lip. He tasted of coffee, chocolate and frustration. Soon, too soon, Steve broke away, and Tony’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, enjoying the warmth of broad palms and fingers framing his face, before he forced them open again. “This is why I didn’t send a text, just so you know,” Steve gritted out. 

“I didn’t even think about it.”

“I thought, I thought- you and Gregory were up to something-boneheaded. Then The Cloisters happened.”

“Not -” Tony ran his tongue over his teeth and lips, tasting Steve on them, wanting more. Words were useless, and wasn’t this all a tangle? 

“Later,” Steve promised, before pressing his forehead against Tony’s, his hands still hanging on to the edges of his robe. “We’ll talk later.”

Tony didn’t mind. Not when his senses were filled with Steve, and Manhattan now his. 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> The story kinda took a left turn into the sticky psyche of sibling rivalry. Sorry about that. I purposely didn't spell out the reasons why Gregory and Tony fell out, because when it comes to siblings and family, it's like blind men describing an elephant, so I'll leave it at that. 
> 
> Also, due to the story being written for valtyr, I was asked to make the ending happy and hopeful. I hope it isn't too left field.


End file.
